Why is there a disconnect between Art and Industry? Why can art not be “useful?” Why can’t industry “inspire?”

More correctly, why are few cases where they overlap the exception and not the rule?

It’s a good question, and one I’m happy to answer. It also leads us to our first myth callback, because we actually touched on this, at least briefly, back on July 9, when we answered the question Why can we walk past beautiful artwork without noticing it?.

The answer, as you’ll recall, involved a union dispute.

And that brings us to today’s myth.

We know already that the daemons are the incarnate spirits of the world, of concept and drive. We know that the eudaemons are those daemons who are helpful and inspirational, who want humanity to reach farther and better. We know that the kakodaemons are the malevolent daemons, who hurt and hinder humanity for their own dark ends. And we know that the muses are those eudaemons who inspire artistic achievement. They’re not the only eudaemons (or kakodaemons, for that matter) involved in creative endeavor, but to be blunt they get the most press. We’ve heard of them. Bad poets describe seventeen year old girls they want to sleep with as “their muse.” We use them as metaphors for everything from Yoko Ono to the horse Jim Morrison shot into his veins to the prostitute Van Gogh gave a chunk of ear to. They get good press.

We also know that other spirits, embodiments, nymphs, eudaemons and kakodaemons are involved in other human endeavors, of all varieties. One of the more prominent of these daemon races was the themisii — the daemons of Good Order. To them went the rightness of Order, law, divine justice and customs. Hand in hand with this were the concepts of duty, of loyalty, and of following regulations.

Sadly, it was a themisad who came up with ISO-9001 Certification. But there is evidence she was a malevolent kakodaemon, not a helpful eudaemon.

The themisii were named for Themis, one of the oldest of Goddesses, one of the very first of the Titans and one of the few to be embraced by the Olympians who came later. Themis was one of the first wives of Zeus, and one of the few his reputedly jealous wife Hera got along with (in part because Themis represented Natural Law, bore the Fates from Zeus, and in general was bad to cross, in part because Themis was kind to Hera and helped raise her up and establish the customs that Hera would later embody, and in part because Themis’s BFF was Nemesis, the primordeal goddess of inevitable and inexorable divine retribution, and anyone who dissed Themis was in for a world of hurt no deity, mortal or anything in between could stand before.

Which is why the counterpart of the themisii are the nemesii, the daemons of fucking you over eight ways from Sunday until you actively yearned for a sweet release of death they weren’t about to give you. So, on the one hand you have Good Order, and on the other hand you have Unimaginable Pain. Everyone with me? Goooooood.

You might think that the nemesii are kakodaemons, dedicated to malevolence. But as we have stated before, almost no concept is unreservedly bad, even as almost no concept is unreservedly good. For the most part, the nemesii are hard working balancers of the divine books. Someone does something staggeringly stupid and offensive to the very firmament, and a nemesid heads out and makes him suffer, proportionately. Look, someone has to be the heavy.

But some nemesii are indeed kakodaemons. They have sworn themselves to a more malevolent path, following the dark Master of the kakodaemons far from the sight of man or civilized company, working in concert to sow chaos — a dichotomy that they manage to make work all too well. And with them, some themisii are kakodaemons, even as some muses are, and so forth. You will always have the obverse to any coin, after all.

One thing that some people have wondered, of course, is where the kakodaemons come from. After all, if they’re not actually organized by race, the way so many fantasists seem to think they should be — oh yes, all the Orcs are evil and all the Elves are good, I’m just sure that’s so despite the fact that half the Elves seem to be gigantic dicks half the time. No, there’s no such thing as a good Orc who just wants to stay home, till the blasted soil and paint nude pictures of what to him are comely Orc women. Don’t be a fool! — then there must be some kind of choice made. Some kind of transition.

And the question of the disconnect between Art and Industry is as good an excuse to tell that story as any I can think of.

Before the union dispute that caused the creation of the kharites, the separation of art from artistic appreciation, the rise of sports and reality television and the potential destruction of humanity, there were a number of areas where muses and the spirits of industry would work together. After all, just because something was going to be practical didn’t mean it couldn’t be beautiful. And just because something was inspirational and glorious didn’t mean there could be no function. One of these partnerships began when Urania Adler, muse under the original Urania and specialist in structures and sculptures, began working with Auxesia Phillips, themisad of Good Order and specialist in barn raising and other community development.

Urania Adler and Auxesia Phillips got along very well. Urania’s mind was well organized, given over to numbers and figures and ingenious kludges. Auxesia was a good engineer, of course, but she was also given to elaboration and exaltation. The two began to work on inspiring humanity to construct buildings. Practical buildings like granaries, community buildings like theaters, and even temples and other places of higher philosophical thought.

Now, Auxesia Phillips had another partner, of course. She was a themisad, which meant she had at least an informal working relationship with a nemesid. This nemesid was Adrastia Young, a beautiful young nemesid, known for being more shy than most. It was intimidating at first to be partnered with Auxesia Phillips — the blond haired, blue eyed themisad was outgoing and personable, always able to make friends in a crowd. But ‘Auxy’ made Adrastia feel welcome, and good about herself. She considered Adrastia a partner and a useful resource, instead of just calling upon her when she came across a rules violation that needed someone’s day messed up. And she called her ‘Drace,’ which honestly Adrastia thought was adorable.

It is perhaps understandable that Drace Young would develop feelings for Auxy Phillips. Certainly, after twenty years together, it’s almost certain she would.

When Auxy and Urania Adler began working together, Drace didn’t think much about it. Auxy had worked with other daemons before, and no doubt she would again. And, while the bespectacled redhaired Urania was certainly cute, most objective judges wouldn’t put her over Drace herself. Both were probably a few notches below Auxy, but that’s the nature of themisii sometimes. And besides, the work was fun.

But more and more, Drace found herself left out.

First it was just Auxy asking Drace’s opinion less. Which made sense — too many cooks and all that. Then, it was arriving to start work only to discover that Auxy and Urania were already well into the workday. More than once they were wearing the same clothes they had worn the day before, even. Drace found herself sitting to the side while the two worked more and more closely, clearly having a ball.

After a while, Drace took to taking walks. After all, there was no reason to hang around and watch Auxy and Urania making plans and inspiring mortals to both art and dedication to duty. She took to walking the fields and grounds, along the edges of the towns or cities where the muse and themisad were working.

One afternoon, she made her way down to a broad meadow. And there she met the nymph of that meadow — one of the rare leimakids, called Divia. Divia greeted her warmly and showed her the hospitality of her home, and asked the nemesid what was wrong.

“It… it’s nothing,” Drace said.

“Well, it must be something,” Divia said. “You’re certainly unhappy, and last I knew that needed a cause.” Which isn’t always the case, of course, but this was some time before the quantification of clinical depression.

And slowly, with the application of a decent amount of cheap rum, Drace opened up to the nymph. Half without understanding it herself, she outlined the wonderful life she had before Urania Adler showed up, and the ways that it had all been disrupted by the muse, and how Drace felt tossed aside and alone.

Divia frowned. “Oh, that’s so unfair,” she said. “You should do something about that.”

Drace blinked. “What can I do?” she asked.

“You’re a spirit of divine retribution. By nature, you can retribute, right?” Divia smiled.

“It’s not that simple,” Drace said. “Auxy doesn’t owe me anything. I never told her how I felt, and she never swore to cleave to me. Just because I want to break Urania Adler, throw her from the cliffs to the rocks below, and laugh as she is crushed and broken at the base forevermore doesn’t mean I can.”

Divia snorted. “It should.”

Drace shrugged, helplessly. “That’s not how the rules work.”

“Then you should work inside the rules.” Divia smiled, wickedly. “You can enforce the rules and regulations, even when it disrupts the spirit of what is being done. So, you can sow contention in the work camps, among the humans. They will argue, things will get slowed down, and a wedge will form between Urania’s artistic impulse and Auxesia’s orderly impulse.”

Drace’s eyes grew wide. “I… I couldn’t do that,” she said. “That would be wrong. An abuse of the power entrusted to me.”

“But a legal abuse,” Divia pressed. “It would be simple, really.”

Drace shook her head quickly. “I couldn’t! I couldn’t. How could you even suggest such a thing?”

Divia slowly smiled. “How do you think?” she asked.

Drace’s eyes grew wide. “You’re a kakodaemon?” she asked, backing up and leaning forward, preparing to lash out. Which would be pretty one sided, as Drace was the embodiment of divine retribution and Divia, kakodaemon or not, was the nymph of a field. While both were potent in their own way, Drace had all the advantage when it came to asskicking.

Divia smiled more broadly. “Have I broken a rule, then? Do you get to attack me purely on the basis of my opinion? Why can I be struck and your little rival Urania not?”

That brought Drace up short. Divia had opened her home to Drace, and extended hospitality. Just because the leimakid was a kakodaemon, dedicated to malevolence, didn’t mean Drace could be rude. Besides, Divia hadn’t done anything yet.

“I should leave,” Drace said, after slowly relaxing her combat stance. “I apologize if I acted rudely, but I was startled.”

“I have taken no offense,” Divia said, smiling a bit. “And if you wish to leave, please feel free. But consider this — I can easily conceive of ways you could drive away this… muse and reclaim your beloved Auxesia Phillips for yourself. So the question is… do you want to continue to feel miserable, while doing nothing? Or do you want to seize control of this situation and do something?”

Drace shivered, looking down. “What could I do?” she asked.

“You could come with me to a place where you could make a choice,” Divia said. “You could become like me. And you could begin to act on your own behalf, instead of always kowtowing to the needs of others.”

And Drace was tempted. She was really tempted, because she could see no way to get rid of Urania, and she knew she was actively unhappy now.

But she looked down once more and said “I can’t. Thank you, but no.”

Divia shrugged, smiling. “No problem. I’m not going anywhere. If you should change your mind, come back and see me and I’ll help you take care of it. And good luck, nemesid. Remember that you are strong, and when you are crossed your wrath is legendary.”

And Drace left, somewhat hurriedly. She was concerned over just how tempted she had been by Divia’s offer. She wanted to find Auxy and discuss it with her — and maybe even with Urania. Maybe… maybe this was the time to come clean over everything, and perhaps then something could be done.

When she arrived, there seemed to be a celebration going on. There were a few other eudaemons present, and even a favored humor or two, and of course there were Auxy and Urania.

And their arms were around each other.

“Drace!” Auxy said, bounding over to the nemesid with delight. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!”

“You are?” Drace asked, her heart leaping.

“Yes! You’ve been my dearest friend for so long — you had to be here!”

“For… for what?” Drace asked, her sudden heart leap being replaced by a sudden nosedive.

“Nia and I are expecting a child! We’re going to live together always!”

Drace was shocked into silence. Which Auxy took as approval. And you may be surprised too — after all, as near as can be told, Auxesia Phillips and Urania Adler are both women. However, it is always a mistake to overly ascribe human characteristics to daemons. They were very closely related, and it was certainly within their capabilities to be far more than ‘male’ or ‘female’ with one another. “Its going to be wonderful! Nia looks beautiful already, don’t you think? And soon–”

“You two are… you’re… together?” Drace asked.

“Yes. Oh, Drace, I should have talked with you about it, but it all happened in such a whirlwind and there was never a good time and besides I know that you’re not really comfortable with subjects like that so I figured I would wait until I saw where all this went — and now I have! We’re going to take leave for the term of the pregnancy and we’re going to try to conceive a second child — this one on me — so together we can–”

“That’s… that’s wonderful, Auxy,” Drace said, her face numb. “It really is. I’m…. happy for you both.”

“Drace?” Auxy asked, brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”

“I… not really. I’ve been ill. I might need to go away for a while and be treated.”

Auxy’s eyes grew wide. “Ill? And me prattling on about all this. Drace — what’s the matter? Can I help?”

Drace felt her stomach clench. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You and Urania have a good party, all right? I’ll see you soon.”

“All right. And thank you, Drace. I’ve never been so happy.”

“I can see that,” Drace whispered.

As the sun dropped down below the trees and twilight began to spread across the land, Adrastia Young entered the domicile of the leimakid Divia once more.

“I’m in,” she said simply.

The journey was long and involved. Divia brought Adrastia to a crack in the very Earth, which they travelled down and in. They walked a very long time, descending in places, ascending in others. Drace thought she was going to one of the various Underworlds, but it became clear that this was a very different place indeed. A place of iron laden stone that looked blood red in the light. A place where chill winds blew. A place where dark figures danced to darker songs. She could hear cackling and screaming from the darkness as they finally entered the great hall, and there Adrastia saw the Master of the Kakodaemons.

How to describe this creature of shadow? Blackness and inkiness spread along his skin like separate creatures, and the angles and joints of his body did not seem to match up. His face was at once compelling and repulsive, asymmetric at best but with a magnetism that made the young nemesid shiver. His eyes seemed to glow with stardust. His fingers seems stained with blood.

“Hello, little nemesid,” he purred in the gloom. “I’m so happy to see you.”

Adrastia shivered. “I should go,” she said. “This was a mistake.”

“Of course it wasn’t a mistake,” the Master said, leaning forward, his spine bending in an alien fashion, as rectilinear and elongate as a serpent’s. “You were distressed at the muse coming in, and sliding around your beloved. Blinding her with words and pretty phrases, and distracting her from the work that needed to be done. Yes?”

Adrastia looked away, unable to face the creature. “Yes,” she said softly. “She… they’re taking nearly a year or more away from the work now. Auxy’s blinded by this… creature.”

The Master leaned back, tendrils of his hair — or something, extending down to brace his head against his chair. “Mm. You’re right, of course. And it’s tragic. But that’s hardly the core of the problem, my dear.”

“It… is?”

“Of course.” The Master darted back forward, lunging as if to bite Adrastia’s head off. Despite herself she shrieked, but the Master paid it no mind. “It’s the humans, Adrastia Young.”

“The humans? What… what do they have to do with it?”

“Everything. Without them, the muses would have no call to interfere with the daemons of Good Order. Without them, the daemons of the world would be free to explore and enjoy life and each other’s company, able to build a world without having to serve some primate who neither understands what we’re sacrificing for them nor has the capacity to care! Without humans, you and your themisad partner would be free to spend your days together — the way that muse has usurped her way into doing.”

Adrastia’s mind whirled. It was incredible, but of course the Master was right. Humanity demanded inspiration and industry, and of course the daemons had to hop-to and do what they demanded. It wasn’t fair — and it led to unnatural combinations. Like the combination of Art and Industry — clearly, the buildings and other engineering works Auxesia Phillips was responsible for were best served by being functional and practical. Urania’s influence just added time and money and useless fripperies, and all on behalf of the humans! Without them, Auxy could simply get her work accomplished and be done with it.

“Do you want to do something about them?” the Master purred.

“Yes,” Adrastia whispered.

“Do you swear yourself to me?”

“Yes,” Adrastia said, her voice firmer now.

“Now and forever?”

“Yes!” Adrastia shouted, her eyes burning now.

The Master chuckled. “I accept,” he said, and with one more lunge forward he tore open her chest and consumed her heart.

It was many weeks or months before Adrastia really recovered, of course. She had a new heart, given to her by her Master. A black thing that pumped a bile that flowed through the newly minted kakodaemon’s veins. And Adrastia began to learn things. New avenues of power, and new ways of looking at things. An animal cunning and an intellect untempered by wisdom. While up in the light Auxesia and Urania had their children. They were a new kind of daemon, called kothars — builders and craftsmen, engineers and inventors, the brilliant merging of the artistic and creative impulse with the practical and orderly impulse. The child Urania bore was called Lloyd. The child Auxesia bore was called Frank. And they were wise and and clever, and almost from birth they began to work, together and separately, to design new and exciting buildings of grace, beauty, strength and purpose.

And other Kothars followed — whether they too were the children of muses and themisii, I cannot answer, but it was clear that these productive and creative workers were well suited to the tasks set before them.

And so it was an autumn day, with the sun high and the air crisp, not far from a point in the real world where an elaborate construction was taking place — a perfect blend of the aesthetic and the utilitarian. I’m not sure what this place was — a hospital, perhaps. Or a school. Or something else entirely. It hardly matters, given what was to come. For this was the day when Adrastia Young, nemesid and partner to the themisad Auxesia Phillips, returned to her duties.

She walked now with slightly more swagger. Her clothes had more red in them, and they fit her better. She smiled more easily before, and seemed less shy. And satyrs, humans and daemons alike were drawn to her as she sauntered to where Auxesia and Urania were consulting on the proper way to inspire the humans to continue their work.

Auxy blinked. “Drace?”

Adrastia smiled languidly. “Well, you’re looking good Auxesia. Married life suits you. If that’s what this is, I mean. Hello, Urania.”

“I… thank you.” Auxy grinned, hopping up to embrace her old friend. “It’s been so long! I almost thought you weren’t coming back!”

“Oh, don’t be silly, silly.” Adrastia’s smile grew. “You can always count on me. So, what’s the current assignment? And when do I get to meet these children you were telling me about before I had to leave?”

And so the three talked, and laughed, and if anything it seemed even better than old times. Urania noticed the remarkable change in the nemesid’s attitude, but decided it wasn’t her place to speak. And Auxesia was so relieved — she had been afraid she had alienated and offended her old friend at the celebration the year before — she excused any differences in behavior out of hand. Besides, she had changed and grown so much in that year that she could hardly believe good old Drace hadn’t.

And good old Drace was all smiles and warmth, looking over the designs and plans and intentions and inspirations. And that night there was a celebration, where she met Lloyd and Frank and the other kothars. And all seemed perfectly well.

And the next morning she slid among the working humans, and she began to do her job. Only where before she sought to redress infraction and offense within the spirit of the project and intent, now she found her ammunition in the strict letter of the rules and laws. And so she began to punish those who stepped out of the bounds of proper workplace behavior — especially those who didn’t do things by the book to more easily facilitate the artistic side of the project. And workers, having the unseen and ineffable wrath of the nemesid visited upon them, were driven back, forced back on their ‘proper’ course, or even took sick or quit the project entirely.

Had Drace the eudaemon succumbed to the temptation to interfere with Urania and Auxy’s projects, she might have stopped there. But Adrastia the kakodaemon had been given a cunning, and so she went and worked her will on the other side… punishing other workers who pushed their work forward with no regard to the aesthetic demands of the position. Those who would make the structure plain and useful, with no soul or beauty. And so they too found themselves going out of their way to correct — or overly correct — their behavior, gilding the lily and losing time on the meat of the project.

And the humans involved began to quarrel. Those who had been burnt for missing regulations didn’t want to hear about the artistic concerns of those who were burnt for forgetting the beauty of the structure. Resentments began to form. Fights began to break out. More and more foremen were called to manage and contain the anger of the workers.

The muse and the themisad were at a loss to explain it. They tried to spread appropriate inspiration though the work camp, but if anything their efforts to inspire orderly behavior and artistic expression just added fuel to the fires. That night, Urania Adler sat outside the tent that she and Auxy called home there on the site.

Adrastia dropped next to her. “Hey sunshine,” she said. “Why so glum?”

“It was all going so well,” Urania said softly. “I don’t understand why things… boiled over today.”

Adrastia rested a hand on the muse’s shoulder. “Come, Urania,” she murmured. “You know Auxesia loves you. And you know she believes in this project.”

“I know.”

“I mean, you can’t blame her for being who she is, can you?”

Urania blinked, and looked up at the nemesid. “Excuse me?”

Adrastia smiled sadly. “Urania, she’s a themisad. The incarnation of Good Order. She is the perfect embodiment of punching a time clock and getting things accomplished on time and under budget. Of course on occasion that’s going to cause friction when it comes to art. I mean, art doesn’t really punch a time clock, does it?”

“Well… no, but….”

“And so it’s to be expected that sooner or later the humans she inspires will lose track of the real vision of the work. After all, to them it’s just some building. And honestly, in the end are they wrong?”

“Wh– of course they’re wrong,” Urania said, brow furrowed. “Art is more than just… just some casual frippery. Art gives meaning, and context. Art gives inspiration and hope and soul. That can’t just be cut out to make room for some arbitrary schedule!”

“Oh, come on,” Adrastia said. “You know that Auxy’s just doing her best to keep things on track. In the end, what’s more important? That the walls stay up or that they look pretty when they fall over?”

“It’s more than looking pretty,” Urania snapped.

“Okay, okay — forget I brought it up,” Adrastia said. “I’m sure you’re right and I’m sure Auxy will understand and agree.”

“She better,” Urania said. “Excuse me. I need some air.”

“You’re excused,” Adrastia said, smiling as she watched the muse leave.

“–understand why they’re fighting each other,” Auxesia said. “Honestly, Drace — you’re the spirit of retribution. Who do we need to strike down to get things moving again?”

“Well, it’s not really that simple,” Adrastia said to her old friend. “I mean, honestly this is probably to be expected. I mean, you can’t expect them to follow a plan that closely. Art demands a certain freedom of expression.”

“Freedom of expression?” Auxesia frowned. “We’re building a building, not painting a fresco. If the building collapses, the art goes with it! You have to build a foundation before you can be experimental above it!”

“Look, I’m sure that Urania will perfectly understand that the good order of the work needs to be followed before any showing off or artistic flourishes are thrown in. I mean, honestly — shouldn’t she just let you guide the project to its initial completion, and then let her artists pretty it up when we know it’s going to stand more than an hour?”

“It’s not that simple. Some of these plans are very elaborate, Adrastia.”

“Mm. I’m sure they are.”

“What does that mean?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Come on, Drace. It’s me. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Adrastia sighed. “They’re only elaborate because she wanted you to make them more elaborate. I mean, what’s more solid? A simple, time honored design? Or some new and elaborate design that you think will stay up, if everything is just right….”

Auxesia rubbed her eyes. “This is a disaster. No wonder the humans are beginning to crack. We need to fix this. Right away.”

“Of course you do. And of course Urania is going to understand and go along with this.”

“She better,” Auxesia muttered.

Needless to say, the ‘serious discussion’ the themisad and the muse had the next day quickly became a full on screaming fit. A night’s contemplation, followed by the muse coming in ready to demand a reworking of the schedule for aesthetic concerns while the themisad was ready to demand setting artistic issues completely aside until the practical work was done, led to the pair screaming and throwing pottery at each other within two hours.

Adrastia watched from a distance, only taking time to wreak yet more surgical vengeance against the humans. This in turn only made the eudaemons angrier and angrier, as it was clear what should be done to save the work, only some people couldn’t see it.

Within the week, whether the eudaemons could see a resolution or not, the humans had a resolution of their own — the city elders pulled the plug on the project, leaving only the barest elements of the initial construction standing. They stand there today, a mixture of solid supports and unimaginable beauty, but lacking purpose or even the means of determining what the structure would have been used for in he first place.

But this is not the story of the building per se. Though it was a trigger point. Because the other muses and the other themisii gathered in the wake of the disaster, and what had been an argument between partners and lovers had become a free for all between two different unions.

Divorce, such as it was, was inevitable. And was supported by the sisters of both daemons. And in the divorce, it was made clear and explicit that art was all fine and good, but industry had more pragmatic concerns, and so the two would only touch on each other when absolutely necessary.

And the muses left going in one direction, and the themisii went in the other. And Urania Adler went with her sister muses, and Auxesia Phillips went in the other.

As for Lloyd, Frank and the kothars? They didn’t understand what their parents were on about, and ultimately they decided to make their own way in the world. And so they stepped forth, the perfect builders and craftsmen, and they found themselves in demand throughout the back ways and backstage areas of the world, constructing buildings of tremendous beauty and imagination resting on solid bedrock fundamentals. And some of that leaked through to the world as we know it, leading to that most artistic of engineering disciplines, architecture, truly continuing to be the bridge between the aesthetic and the pragmatic.

Adrastia went with Auxesia, of course. “Stupid cow,” she said to Auxy. “You’re better off without her.”

“Yeah,” Auxy said, staring out the window.

“Right! What’s our next project, then?’

“There isn’t one.”

Adrastia blinked. “Excuse me?”

“There isn’t a next project. I don’t want to do this any more.”

“But… but you can’t just stop,” Adrastia said, shocked. “You’re a themisad!”

“I don’t believe in good order any more. I don’t want to do this any more. Excuse me, Drace.”

And the themisad left, to seek out the Thesmophoros, the Law Bringer, who was responsible for the arbitration of the divine and the profane, the spiritual and the banal. And when she met with the Thesmophoros, she asked to be given some other role — something where she could put her natural order to good use without having to be creative in any way. Because she had truly loved Urania Adler, and the hole left in her heart was too big to simply wish away.

And the Thesmophoros took pity, and arranged for Auxesia to be the chief of staff for the Duke of Monotony, where no creative flashes ever broke through the day to day hum drum. And so Auxesia buried herself in these new, utterly banal tasks and soothed her pains there.

And Urania too sought the Thesmophoros, because she couldn’t imagine continuing her work with so much of her soul torn out, and she too was reassigned — in her case to the logistics end of the Marquis of Rainbows, keeping the various art supplies necessary to such work always at hand and full.

And the seeds were sown for the divisions between the muses and the themisii, along with the allies of both sides lining up. These divisions would grow, and complaints would grow with them, until they came to a flashpoint that led, ultimately, to the creation of the kharites, the division of artistic appreciation from art itself, and potentially to the destruction of the human race.

And Adrastia Young found herself alone. Having successfully driven Urania and Auxesia apart, she found herself without either of them. Auxesia hardly needed a partner to maintain the routine in the Estate of Monotony, after all. Which meant that far from getting her chance to truly, truly reconnect to the woman she was convinced she loved… she would never see Auxy again.

Needless to say, as a kakodaemon of inexorable divine retribution, Adrastia visited horrific vengence upon Divia. This was to be understood — kakodaemons were well known to turn on each other at the drop of a hat. But after that was done, as with all true kakodaemons, Adrastia could not blame herself for what happened. She was not capable of that level of personal responsibility. And as she dared not blame the Master and there was no use or vengeance to be taken in blaming either Urania or Auxesia, she elected to blame the humans who after all were at the center of it all.

She still blames us, to this day. And so she flits from place to place, boardroom to boardroom, college campus to garret to symposium. And where Art and Industry threaten to enter true collaboration, she quietly and surgically finds those regulations or rules that are being bent juuuust enough to justify her retribution. And with the singlemindeness of a goat and the subtlety of a weaver, she drives collaboration into committees and finally into collapse. Art, where it’s allowed at all, is a secondary concern following the real work being done. And when art is the point, anyone who tries to merge the practical or pragmatic with it has to cope with cries of “sellout” at the best.

But through it all, there remains those few humans, muses and themisii who manage, very very quietly, to work together. And sometimes they have a kothar helping them as well. So, while we don’t live in the paradise that the merging of art and industry could have given us, with every device and structure both beautiful and practical in a perfect dance and harmony, we do sometimes see an object or an edifice that is truly inspiring and truly pragmatic, with no way to tell where the aesthetics end and the utility begins. And when we see those isolated triumphs, he murmur to ourselves “there. That is what it is supposed to be. More things should be like that.”

But don’t murmur it too loudly. Adrastia Young has sharp ears, and when she gets your scent, she never, ever gives it up. The easiest thing to do is to continue to live in a world where ‘utilitarian’ and ‘artistic’ are antonyms.

What *really* causes hangovers? It can’t be just drinking, because plenty of people drink them and don’t get them, or throw up the alcohol and do. It can’t just be dehydration because even folk who drink lots of water get them.

Which, you know, is a fair question. I mean, think about it. There’s lots of scientific basis and explanation given, but nothing’s been definitive. They talk about hypoglycemia or B-12 deficencies or God punishing them for sin.

And where there is question, there is a ripe field for myth. Which is, after all, what we do here.

So, let’s do this thing.

Why does alcohol produce hangovers, and why doesn’t it produce hangovers consistently?

We have mentioned before that the spirits of the world are more properly called daemons. And we have seen a lot of daemons in this work. We have seen the nymphs of money and the mermaids of the sea. We have seen the psychopomps on the green line and the union organizers from the spirits of good order. And of course we have seen the dance of muse and kharite, the inspirer of art and the inspirer of artistic appreciation.

We do not mention Mister Shephard and Mister Crook in that list. But that is another story, of course.

We have also mentioned that daemons come in two basic types — the Eudaemons, or beneficial and helpful spirits, and the Kakodaemons, or malicious spirits. Now, if you read almost any fairy tale or storybook, an ugly specter is raised. Not a demon or ghost — something uglier still. The specter of racism.

Seriously. You’ve read the stories. Trolls and ogres are evil. Fairies and sprites and pixies are good. Banshees kill because they like to do it. Sirens sing sailors to their doom. Neriads are helpful and friendly unless crossed.

Don’t believe it. Not for one second. Eudaemons and Kakodaemons can be found in every race and species of spirit and fairy. A redcap might be a bloody killer, but whether or not he’s a malicious one has little to do with his species or his choice in headgear.

But, these associations have come down through the ages regardless. The good fae and the bad fae. The good nymphs and the bad nymphs. All based on race instead of the true defining edge between a eudaemon and a kaodaemon — the heart. Mankind believes it. And sadly, all too many spirits, godlings and daemons believe it. And this means that all too often, evil lurks in the midst of good, leading to pain and corruption.

Which brings us, interestingly enough, to alcohol.

Unlike many inventions and substances in what we euphemistically call the real world, there was no real artifice or metaphor in the creation of alcohol — at least in the creation of the potable beverage variety. Yes, it was brought to our world by the spirits who carried it from the unseen world, and yes the real world had to piece together some kind of scientific process to explain it after the fact, but really that’s just bookkeeping. Alcohol was created by the spirits for the pleasure of mankind and was given to mankind as a gift. And believe it or not, it was done with the best of motives by the nicest of eudaemons.

You see, back in the mists of history, there was a call put forth by the lords and ladies who stood above the spirits of rock and wave and grain. An echo was heard by the Oreads in their caves and the Auloniads in their pastures and vales. A whisper was passed by the naiads in their brooks to the Napaeae who lived in the wooded glens and grottos and by them to the Nereids who lived in the sea.

This call was simple. The world was lush and beautiful and bright, and for their part in making it so, the nymphs of the world were to be commended. And so, there was going to be a truly kickass party.

And so the nymphs ascended to the unseen world, leaving behind their places of mystery. The Dryads, Hamadryads and Meliae left their trees, the Oceanids and Nereids left the sea. The Pegaeae left their springs, the Alseids left their groves, the Limnades left their lakes, the Hesperides left their gardens, and by now you’re sick iof the list so needless to say all the other beautiful, wise and glorious nymphs left their respective homes as well. They gathered on the foothills of Mount Kegger, and they proceeded to have games and spirits and a whole mess of entheogens.

Their entheogen of choice, for the record, was a kind of fermented tree sap they called méli or ‘honey,’ made from the sap of certain sugar ash trees. Which meant, naturally enough, that the Meliae were responsible for bringing the booze to the party. They drank hearty and went wild enough that a commemorative series of Grecian urns depicting them topless in the shower were sold late at night for years.

But as with all really bitching parties, the group reached that time of night where the party slowed down and everyone was feeling mellow. People were sitting back, smoking cigarettes, and talking about how no, I really love you, man. Somewhere in the background, a particularly ambitious Erinye had figured out how to play Tubular Bells on a lyre.

“You know what?” Ceto, one of the Oceanids said, finally. “I figured it out. I mean, I figured it all out.”

“What?” Larunda, one of the Naiads asked.

“Huh?”

“What? What did you figure out?”

“Wh– Ohhhh. Mankind.” Ceto shook her hand. “I figured out mankind. Just now.”

“She is so wasted,” Kyrene, herself an Auloniad, said.

“No no no no no,” Ceto said, shaking a finger. “No. I did it. I figured out mankind. Right now.”

“What about them?” Larunda asked.

“Huh?”

“What did you figure out about Mankind?”

“Oh. I know what they need.”

“What do they need?”

“This,” Ceto said, waving her arms to encompass the whole area. “They need this.”

“Mind-blown overly mellow nymphs whose inhibitions have been taken down with fermented tree sap?” Kyrene giggled. “I’ll bet that’s what they need.”

“No no no. Think about it. Human beings are all so uptight. They need a chance to feel. Like. This.” Ceto grinned. “Because man, I totally feel so cool right now. They should feel this cool. Blow off some steam.”

“You are not going to teach them how to make méli,” Britomartis, one of the Meliae who brought the fermented sap, said firmly. “The last thing we need are a bunch of humans nailing faucets into our trees. Have you seen what those people do to maples?”

Nearby, one of the more powerful Naiads — a nymph named Orseis — wrinkled her pretty brow with thought. “She’s on to something,” she said. “Think about it. Humanity doesn’t really know how to party. They need something to relax them. Something that will lower their inhibitions. Bring their hearts closer to the surface. Give them a release.”

“I’m serious,” Britomartis said. “No fucking méli.”

“All right all right all right,” Ceto said. “No méli. There must be something else we could give them.”

One of the shy Napaeae — whose name has been lost to history — piped up “well, we could combine our natures. Berries and the like from the fields, or grapes. Yeasts. Water from the springs. Do a little fermenting and distilling and….”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” Orseis said, slapping her hand on the table, which knocked her half cup of méli over. “Of course! We could make up whole batches of beverages that the humans would love, that would be like a méli for them! We could combine them and develop them and cultivate them. We could distill some and age it in barrels of oak to get that nice Dryad nature in them, and give it to the Scots, say.”

The idea caught on like wildfire, and within the hour thousands of overly creative nymphs of all description were busy turning their supernatural natures to the creation of a whole new kind of beverage, meant for mankind.

They had the highest of principles, of course. They wanted to relax us, and calm us, and make us feel good. And it was well known, to both scholars among mankind and among the nymphs themselves, that all nymphs of all varieties were eudaemons. Helpful. Friendly. Kind. Loving. This was well known.

And, as we know, that was also false. Because the choice to become a kakodaemon came from the heart, not from the lineage. And for every ten or fifteen eudaemons among the nymphs, a kakodaemon lurked, quiet and unseen. And as more and more nymphs got involved, those kakodaemons smiled, seeing some chance to spread mischief and have a little fun. And so they added hints and accents to the concoctions. They added addictive qualities here… they added bits of anger and resentment and sulleness there. They added torment and pain, and a loss of control. They coupled a loss of coordination with the loss of inhibition, and they gently nudged those losses of inhibitions to a higher extreme — so that instead of simply making human beings feel good and trust each other more, sometimes there were barfights or unexpected adultery.

These poisons were very, very slight compared to the whole. And while the nymphs would normally have noticed them as they were working on it, it’s worth noting everyone involved was totally wasted on méli. Quality control was somewhat hard under the circumstances.

And so the beverages were brought to the real world, and real world techniques for making them were taught to the humans, as the nymphs whispered the recipies to trusted human beings, confidents, and lovers.

And beers and ales were brewed, and they were good. And wines were pressed and fermented and aged, and they were sweet. And whiskey and rum and vodka and gin spread. Liquor became all the rage, especially at parties.

But the poisons that the kakodaemons slipped into them remained. And so heartache followed in some cases. Liquor made some people angry. Others became depressed. Still others thought they could dance when they were drunk, and that was a sad sight indeed.

But the poisons did not affect all human beings equally. Nor did all drinks cause the same effects. The individual human might be more susceptable to one poison, making him an angry drunk. Another might find himself craving liquor all the time, as the poison wrapped around his liver and his soul. A third might found Depeche Mode.

And some human beings? Well, some human beings are more sensitive to the poisons, and have a very human, very literal reaction to them. The liquor poisons them. In extreme cases, hospitalization has to follow. But far more commonly, they simply feel like sheer, unmitigated Hell when the liquor works through their system and the poison is left behind.

Some people have no sensitivity to these specific poisons, and always feel fresh and cheery the following day. Others aren’t always sensitive to them — sometimes they have seasonal allergies which make them more sensitive, or some other factors that opens their souls metaphysically speaking. Still others always suffer the pains of the morning after.

And of course, these ‘hangovers’ were exploited by those who advocated temperance or just didn’t like parties. They would rail at the suffering men and woman, and mock them, and suggest that they should avoid these things going forward. And so they sowed guilt and anger and arguments about alcohol even when no one was drinking it right then — a very deep poison indeed, causing division where the eudaemons only meant to increase harmony.

The nymphs feel badly that things didn’t work out quite as they’d hoped, but since most of that night was a haze anyway, they didn’t worry overly much about it. For the most part, they got on with their immortal lives and figured that even with the downside that alcohol brought with it, the up side still made a lot of humans happy, and that was okay with them.

As for the kakodaemons?

Set aside for the moment hangovers, as miserable as they made people. Set aside for the moment the indiscretions and embarrassments, from unplanned pregancies through to videos of the office party proving you called your boss a miserable scrotum. Set aside the depressions and the agonies and the interminable Beatnik poetry we ended up having to listen to.

Set all that aside, and consider this. According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, there were 17,013 alcohol related fatalities on the road in 2003 alone. And over half a million injuries.

Statistics like that make a kakodaemon smile an evil little smile. As far as they are concerned, that was one totally kickass party.

It is rumored, by the by, that the Pegaeae — the nymphs of the springs — learned of the poisons and learned of a way to counteract them. So, someone who drinks a large amount of spring water — or, in more practically, any water — will help shield himself from a hangover’s effect. This is because the act of drinking water while drinking or drunk calls the attention of a Pegaea to you. However, as with all the other nymphs, some Pegaeae are kakodaemons instead of eudaemons, and if you should get one of those she’ll likely just make the hangover worse.

It is also rumored that vitamin B-12 helps hangovers. I can’t speak to that, because as everyone knows vitamin B-12 is in the province of the satyrs, and they weren’t anywhere near that party. Still, it’s probably a good idea to stock up on your B complex vitamins anyway.

Regardless, one should remember that the kakodaemons do in fact enjoy making you suffer. And more to the point, they enjoy making you badly injured or dead. So when you indulge in drink, try to do so in moderation lest they have a chance to wreak havoc with you. And don’t turn around and operate heavy machinery — including a car, motorcycle, truck, or folding tandem bicycle — after you’ve been downing shooters, okay? Kakodaemons might like those statistics I quoted, but the rest of us don’t.

Wednesday, when I described the premise to her, said this might be one of the most elaborate and apocalyptic solicitations to donate to public television she’d ever heard. “The world could end tomorrow if you don’t pledge now — and you get this beautiful tote bag….”

Please enjoy.

*** *** *** ***

On January the 12th, one of the greatest violinists of our age — possibly one of the greatest violinists ever — played as a street musician in one of the busiest Metro stations in Washington D.C. for almost a full hour and essentially no one noticed. He was playing one of the finest violins ever crafted, he was playing some of the most beautiful, energetic and emotional pieces ever composed, and he was playing with all the heart and soul he had, and he was just another nuisance in the train station during rush hour.

It sounds like a bad story setup. Something hackneyed and shopworn — the kind of thing a bad writer comes up with to describe the terrible state of culture and priorities in this, our oh so modern world. Admit it. You can think of a dozen ways for that story to proceed, and all of them seem trite.

The difference is, this really happened. Honest injun. The violinist was the internationally acclaimed Joshua Bell. And you can read about what happened in the April 4th Washington Post.

A glorious, inspired classical musician — one acclaimed by all who know his work, whose audiences are always packed and who gets tens of thousands of dollars or more to perform, and he took in less than sixty bucks sawing away at a Stradivarius — and twenty of those came from a fan of his work that happened to recognize him. In the end, he made just over thirty bucks in pocket change, from the few people who even bothered to notice that brilliance was in their midst.

It was not that Mister Bell’s performance was subpar. It wasn’t. There are videotapes, and if anything he put more into it than he put into the performances he makes obscene amounts of money from the cognoscenti who know about him. He wanted that audience, and he mentioned the weird sense of validation he got as someone just glanced his way for a moment, much less actually stopped and put money into his case. Pocket change. Pennies, sometimes.

It would be tempting to blame humanity. Blame the rush of life that we all feel. Blame the driving need to pass between to and fro that leaves no time to appreciate beauty for what it is. Bell, after all, was playing in a transitional place — a place meant in the end to facilitate one’s journey instead of being a destination. And these places are rare and special in their own right, but that’s the subject of another myth for another day. That’s not the reason why essentially no one noticed Joshua Bell at the L’Enfant Plaza Station.

Hrm. “Joshua Bell at the L’Enfant Plaza Station.” That’s a good title for a poem.

Which indirectly answers the question — the question of ‘why don’t we notice the staggering beauty and art in life all around us?’

It’s not just street music, mind. There are statues in many if not most of our cities, and monuments (whether representative or not) in most of our communities, but it’s the tourists who take the time to pay attention. The locals screen them out. You screen them out. You don’t notice the exquisite architecture of the local church or the homes built hundreds of years before. You don’t pay any attention to the heartwrenching beauty of the murals or the stunningly raw artistry of the graffiti done in the scant minutes between when the police officers pass by.

And neither do I. And neither, most of the time, does Joshua Bell.

It’s not our fault. It stems from a union dispute.

It is well known that the muses inspire artistic expression. Traditionally, there is one muse, or three, or nine, depending on who you speak to. However, in a practical sense there are way more than that. With the prolifieration of humanity there has also been a proliferation of metaphysical entities to inspire said humanity. Nine begat eighty one, and eighty one begat six thousand, five hundred and sixty one, and from there the numbers get truly ridiculous.

That’s a lot of muses. No wonder there are so many channels on satellite television these days. But that’s tangential to the point. Needless to say, the spirits of inspiration had proliferated to the point where they had to organize, ultimately into chapters and unions and guilds. It’s inevitable.

It is also inevitable, of course, that other metaphysical entities would take a notice.

You see, muses are, like most spirits, daemons. This is not to call them demons — that came later. No, among the ancients, the spirits and beings that were between humanity and the Gods were the daemons, and they divided into two camps. The Eudaemons were the helpful spirits — the spirits who did good deads, acted as guardians, inspired good works and the like — while the Kakodaemons were the malicious spirits. The beings of minor or major destruction, base intent, lust, greed and what have you. Later, the Abrahamic religions would come along and pick up the concepts of guardian angels and tempting demons, which naturally spawned entirely new beings, races and cosmologies, but that gets outside the realm of this treatise.

As the muses proliferated, most of them fell into the eudaemon camp. They were inspiring humanity to create, to build, to compose works that reached for ideals of beauty and aesthetics, elevating the thoughts and spirits of those who beheld them. It was only the occasional or rare muse who was enough of a kaodaemon to inspire people to, oh, I dunno, burn shit for art. This was centuries before Yoko Ono or performance art, to mention.

However, there was also a problem. You see, humanity was designed to appreciate art. When beautiful music was performed where human beings could hear, it would attract attention and draw eyes and thoughts to it, to indulge in that most visceral of sounds. When a dancer performed, the people around that dancer would stop and watch, smiling softly as they enjoyed what was beautiful in that art. And art would inevitably begat new art — derived works, or new paintings, or even the art of discussion and debate, as merits and aesthetics became fodder for intelligent discourse. This was called criticism, and it had its place in describing what artists were trying to achieve and how they were trying to achieve it.

Most of which, as stated, was positive. Oh, the occasional kakodaemon would inspire destructive art meant to be indulged in to the exclusion of any positive benefit — I think I mentioned burning things — or the occasional criticism meant to cut people down to size instead of discuss… well, much of anything, But those were rare. They added a certain amount of spice. For the most part, from the point of view of artists of all stripes, the world was a utopia. Poets and painters, dancers and dollmakers and everything in between were held in regard, because within them was the power to distract, to enlighten, and to enthrall.

Unfortunately, it was only the artists — and the muses — who found that world to be a paradise. For everyone else, there were problems.

You see, the muses were hardly the only daemons to inspire or tempt humanity. There were a whole host of other eudaemons and kakodaemons out there, inspiring good and bad behavior, doing good or bad deeds, and in general helping to keep the clockworks and symphony we call reality humming. Humanity was of course the central point of their work, since it was humanity who defined reality and humanity who actually did (or had things done for) all the things in the world. And at first, the daemons were content to have artistic expression as a part of that overall scheme. After all, humanity needed to be inspired to do their best, to believe, to have their spirits lifted, and sometimes to simply put their tools down, rest from their labors, and enjoy a good show. And, when there was one muse, or three muses, or nine… or even eighty-one… well, that worked out just fine. It was relatively rare that an artist would show up and enthrall the people with some creation. Indeed, the stories of those artists themselves could be rare art, passed from one mortal to the next, and the art would fit into place just as it was supposed to. And then could come discussion and criticism and all the rest, all the while the debators could get on with building aqueducts or paving roads or tilling fields or washing all the excrement off the streets. It worked. It fit.

But then the muses numbered in the thousands. And all of a sudden, shit wasn’t getting done any more.

Think about it. Every time someone had that spark of inspiration — that touch of the divine — to put hand to instrument, voice to song, pen to paper or brush to canvas, it would result in those beholding the results to pause, to consider, to appreciate and to be inspired by that work. This began to compound. Most art wasn’t ephemeral, after all. Paintings existed beyond the moment, and so did statues. Songs and music could be performed again and again, poems could be read and reread, stories told and retold… art compounded. And while humanity was becoming extraordinarily intellectual, with the meanest of peasants able to comment intelligently on topics like zeugma or irony, the world was grinding towards a halt. Things were being put off. Labors were ceasing without restarting.

And the daemons of industry, of production, of order, of means, of wealth, of activity, of exploration, of endeavor and of just about everything else you could think of were getting pissed off. They had unions of their own, you know, and without them mankind would fall into sloth and decay and ultimately into exinction, since they’d stop with the planting or hunting or gathering or the cleaning up of excrement entirely without them.

The muses, in the meantime, were outraged by snide references being made to them. They were fulfulling their function, God damn it, and it’s not their fault their function was more pleasant than spending nine hours a day hammering shit. So the idea that they should hold back just because humanity didn’t have a sense of perspective was downright offensive.

Strikes were threatened on both sides. Vitriol flew through the half-world and the spirit world and occasionally into debates in the real world, giving rise to a new class of human beings we today call “assholes.” But that’s another myth.

Finally, as with all such disputes, the only solution was arbitration. The muses sent one of their number, Clio Briggs, to meet with one of the eudaemons of good order — the spirits called the themisii — named Eunomia Jones. They met with the Thesmophoros, the Law Bringer, who was responsible for the arbitration of the divine and the profane, the spiritual and the banal.

There was, as should be expected, a lot of shouting.

“We’re not claiming that artistic expression isn’t important,” Eunomia said. “Far from it. We need artistic expression. We recognize this. But art can’t overwhelm all other aspects of the human condition! If it does, humanity will fall apart and take society with it.”

“So what,” Clio said. “You’d have us stop doing our jobs? You’d have me sideline a few thousand muses? We’re not meant to be silent. We’re meant to inspire, and we’re not going to suffer just because you people aren’t good enough at your jobs to keep humanity on track.”

“Good enough at our jobs?” Eunomia shouted. “We were doing fine at our jobs when there weren’t all you muses running around! You’re the ones who have procreated to the point that you’re threatening the good of the whole!”

“Are you calling my mother a slut?”

“If the name fits!”

“Bitch!”

“Whore!”

“Both of you shut up,” the Thesmophoros snapped. “Jesus Christ, it’s like negotiating with three year olds.”

In the sullen silence that followed, the Thesmophoros rubbed her eyes. “Morgana,” she called out into the hall, after a moment, “make up a pot of darjeeling, would you? It’s going to be a few cups of tea before we’re through with this.” She then turned to the muse and the themis. “Okay. Before we go any further, let me explain something very simple to both of you. That which is created cannot be uncreated. Even destruction doesn’t uncreate so much as it creates something new, even if that ‘something new’ is a pile of rubble. That’s true of matter, that’s true of energy, that’s true of art, and that’s true of the aspects of humanity.

“We can’t eliminate artistic appreciation from humanity, because it’s innate to humanity. Humanity is designed to be distracted from their labors. If they lack that capacity, then they would become sullen. Life would become a monotony, and mankind would just be cogs in a machine. Eventually, they would die out because they would lack any point in continuing.”

Clio smiled slightly, and Eunomia pursed her lips.

“But on the other side of the equation, there is indeed an imbalance forming,” the Thesmophoros said, turning to the muse. “Right now, your artists are becoming too much of a distraction. Humanity needs to learn to balance industry and art. If they can’t do that, eventually they will grow decadaent and die out, too fat and sybaritic to get anything done.”

Clio’s smile faded, even as Eunomia’s scowl softened.

“So. You two are going to need to work this out. The muses — and the art they inspire — is going to need to evolve. To become something that doesn’t just distract from labor and inspire higher thought, but that joins with labor, to give higher reasons to do the things that must be done. It will be hard, and this might fail and take humanity with it, but the alternative is to see the destruction of humanity by one of these two extremes, by the degradation of the body or the degradation of the soul.”

Clio and Eunomia looked at each other.

“Can we have a few minutes to discuss it,” Eunomia asked.

“Of course,” the Thesmophoros said.

The pair moved to the back of the room. “If we go to our guilds and tell them we need to come up with a compromise solution, we’re going to be lynched,” Eunomia said quietly.

Clio scowled. “Tell me about it,” she said. “We muses aren’t used to tempering our inspiration. Telling us we need to start pushing even small amounts of art into promoting industry’s going to go over like a lead balloon.”

“I know.” Eunomia shook her head. “And some of the other daemons can’t stand you muses any more. Telling them that art can inspire industry will be too much for them to bear. I had to stop some of them from going to war against your kind, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clio said. She looked to the other side of the room, where the Thesmophoros was sipping tea. “She’s supposed to come up with an answer we can live with.”

“Yeah, well — she put it on us.”

Clio frowned. “Hrm. She said that while aspects of humanity could be created, they couldn’t be destroyed, right?”

“Right. We can’t wipe out you muses and hope it’ll get rid of artistic expression. More muses would just… appear….” a light dawned in Eunomia’s eyes. “Waaaait a second….”

Clio slowly smiled. “That means other aspects of humanity can still be personified by new spirits, right?”

“It has to mean that.”

“In that case….”

“…we can find a new creation in between art and industry — one that could act as a buffer….”

“…keeping everyone employed without eliminating anything.”

“That’s brilliant!” they shouted together.

On the other end of the table, the Thesmophoros looked up from her cup. And slowly, she felt the migraine begin to start.

After a few minutes, it had only gotten worse. “You want a new class of daemon,” she said.

“That’s right,” Clio said.

“Spirits of artistic appreciation,” Eunomia said.

“That way, artists can continue creating and muses can continue inspiring–”

“–but other daemons can have human beings build and work without being too distracted–”

“–and everyone is happy!” they both said, grinning.

“Yeah,” the Thesmophoros said. “Happy. Right.” She looked at the pair. “You understand that humanity isn’t a binary creature, right?”

“Huh?” Clio asked.

“Sure they are,” Eunomia said. “Men and women. That’s binary.”

“Well, no. Wait,” Clio said. “That ignores issues of gender disphoria.”

“Oooo — point. Not to mention the feminine and the masculine as they combine within–”

“Shut up,” the Thesmophoros said, softly.

They shut up.

“What I mean is, mankind is an ecosystem. A biome. Their spiritual and physical worlds aren’t simple things. We can’t add to it without having broad implications, no matter how small the add is. If we create a new class of daemon and tie them to some aspect of the human condition, this is going to lead to broader consequences than whether or not a guitarist can distract a construction crew before they finish putting up a building.”

Clio smiled. “Oh, we realize,” she said.

“Heck, we’re counting on it,” Eunomia said.

“After all, the new changes and shifts will require an evolution of society.”

“And that will lead to even better discussions on industry and art, and the roles between them.”

“We have it all worked out.”

“Trust us. So can we do it?”

The Thesmophoros looked at them both. “Yes,” she said quietly. “We can do it.”

And so they put their request up the line, and the gods and loci of the universe set the wheels of creation to spinning, and so was a new class of daemon born.

And these daemons were called the kharites — the graceful spirits of beauty, adornment, mirth, and appreciation, known for their dance, their songs and their festivities. And most of them were eudaemons who saw their role as bringing pleasure to humanity, and only a few were kakodaemons who pushed human beings to indulge in the arts to the exclusion of all their productive lives. And it seemed like everyone was happy.

Well, except the artists. See, before their creations were lauded in all the land, their beauty enough to receive comment from cobbler or king. Now, of course, without a kharite’s intercession or some other means of forcing acknowledgment of their works, people walked past them without noticing. So they kept trying to better themselves, thinking that all they had to do was do it all right and the universal acclaim that had once been theirs would be theirs again.

But everyone else was happy!

Well, except the critics. Because without the universal acceptance and appreciation of art, suddenly the people who devoted their time and energy to discussing the hows and whys of that art found themselves without an audience. What is more — and potentially worse — critics had once been intimately tied to art through the appreciation that was the common state of humanity. As a result, their own criticisms were themselves artistic expression. Now, they were still written, of course, and still a form of art, but now critics did not interact directly with muses but instead were among the strongest disciples of the kharites — drinking deep of appreciation and using and refining it into its own place in the world.

However, there were far fewer kharites in the world than there were muses, which meant that the more the critics monopolized their time, the fewer kharites there were to inspire appreciation among the rest of humanity.

So. Okay. The artists weren’t happy and the critics weren’t happy. Fine. But everyone else was happy, right? So it’s all good, baby!

Well, not so much.

You see, humanity did need to have distraction from their daily labors. Without it, they were just serfs. Slaves to their positions and their productivity. They worked, they came home, they argued with the spouse and kids, they worked around the house, they went to bed, and the next day they did it again. Without down time, without a driving need to do something that wasn’t just dealing with the rest of society’s wants, needs or drivers, they became sullen and unhappy, just as it was warned they would.

Which in a way was ironic, since they were surrounded by art, with more appearing all the time, and they were surrounded by criticism appreciating and analyzing that art, but they were increasingly disconnected from it. It was like dying of thirst while floating on a raft in the ocean.

It couldn’t last, of course. And naturally it didn’t last. You’ll notice we still exist today, so clearly our forefathers didn’t say a collective “fuck it” and die out as a species. Because there was a group that was indeed very happy at the turn of events this little tale tells.

That group… was the kakodaemons.

The kakodaemons — the spirits of malevolence and maliciousness, baseness and selfishness, had been waiting for a chance to gain a sense of ascendency among the spirits and the world. It was hard, because almost everything in the world was a good thing. Seriously. There’s very little in the world that is unreservedly bad. It takes indulgence, excess and meanness to take that which is good and make it evil, and evil itself creates almost nothing new.

However, the kakodaemons recognized the desperate hunger humanity had for distraction away from the soul crushing banality of their lives. And they knew that it would be a long time before there were enough kharites to really give humanity enough of an outlet of appreciation to fill the gap. In fact, it was a specific kakodaemon — a kitsune called Rupert — who discovered the truth that would change everything.

The kitsune are shapeshifters and tricksters. Not all are kakodaemons, of course, but all are wily and clever, and Rupert was mean and shallow — a five-tail, for those who know what that means, so he was also strong and experienced. And one day he managed to engineer the collision of twelve separate carriages in a badly marked intersection between roads, causing great pain and pathos.

And as he hid in the grasses, disguised as a grey fox, and watched the carnage, he noticed something remarkable. He noticed that as other humans passed by — humans unconnected to the tragedy and unable or not in a position to help — they slowed down.

They slowed down to watch.

Just like they once would have slowed down to listen to beautiful music, or look at a beautiful statue.

And Rupert smiled, and crawled away. He crawled into the deep caverns and dark places, the warrens of the Earth, until he found his Master, and he whispered what he had learned to that Master.

And the Master smiled on Rupert, and awarded him a sixth tail, and the Master called any number of the kakodaemons to him — even those kakodaemons who were muses or kharites themselves. And he confirmed what Rupert had found, and together they began to plan, and plot, their ways to subvert all of humanity.

Time passed, as time always does. And if there had been any concern about how humanity was reacting as a whole, it subsided as mankind slowly seemed to adapt. Men and women seemed to find diversions sufficient to their need, which meant that there weren’t mass suicides or too much emo clothes choices.

The artists and the critics were still dissatisfied, of course. It wasn’t that there weren’t truly great works of art — there were, and they were universally approved of by those who noticed. There were shows and concerts and performances and readings, often sold out, and the people at them adored those producing their work, but people who encountered the artwork unexpectedly generally didn’t care about it unless it was specifically called to their attention, and perhaps not even then.

And as for the critics? Well, honestly, was it that big a loss? Yes, the discourse grew insular and the critics began to debate one another more than analyzing the work, all too often, but they still seemed to be having fun. Though it did occur to a group of those critics — critics with kakodaemon kharites whispering in their ears, much of the time — that while they couldn’t necessarily draw the great heaping mass of humanity into the artistic discourse, they could have influence on them by reviewing works of art, barely touching on analysis, but giving people pointers and channel markers on what art was worth their time and what should be avoided. Soon enough, analysis became a very small component of what a “critic” did, and even the word “criticize” stopped meaning “analyzing what and how an artist did” and started meaning “explaining exactly what the artist did wrong and why they should be ashamed of it.”

The muses were, if anything, too busy. It seemed that absent truly unifying artwork, a good percentage of the populace decided to turn their hands to their own artistic pursuits. Now, the thing to remember about muses are they don’t provide talent, or skill. They provide inspiration. They give the budding artist something to try — be it folding paper, sewing, playing the spoons or, of course, composing a ninth symphony that would be eternally remembered and played down through the ages. The execution of that inspiration might be flawed and insipid, but that isn’t really the muse’s department. They just get the ball rolling.

And it seemed that more and more people wanted to roll that ball. So many that the muses found themselves overworked. And one or two were concerned — there was tremendous artistic endeavor, but the schools of art, of thought and of criticism were dividing. Audiences were growing smaller. Interests were growing more specialized.

The eudaemons of industry were happy. Mankind, freed from the all consuming distraction of beauty and the aesthetic, seemed far more easy to keep on task. Things were built. Fields were tilled. Wealth was earned. Marks were made. Though one or two began to be concerned as well. The overall spiritual development of the human race — the time that men and women spent on higher pursuits, on philosophy, on theology, on spirituality, on science — was declining. Oh, professionals would pursue these pursuits. Folks would go to school for science and become scientists, folks would go to school for theology and become priests, folks would go to school for philosophy and become fry cooks and the like. But in the olden days, it looked like all of mankind was slowly ascending — learning about themselves and the world, questioning what they saw, and growing individually and collectively. And now, while they were happy enough to work, to go home, and to blow off steam, the pursuit of the invisible and the ineffable was falling by the wayside.

Chief among those who were concerned, as it turned out, were Clio Briggs and Eunomia Jones.

Oh, the pair had been thrilled to begin with. It all had fallen into place exactly as they had hoped. What had been an automatic had become something to be cultivated. Where humanity had innate artistic appreciation before, now they needed to develop a relationship with an unseen kharite to have it be a distraction now. And all seemed just fine, as a result. When men and women went out to a show — where it was expected there would be appreciation going on — a single kharite could usually take care of most of the audience.

But after a few years, they had realized that more and more people were falling into a funk born of their lack of escape, they began to worry. The warnings of the Thesmophoros were still fresh in their ears.

And then, mankind seemed to pull out of it. They had found their outlets, and the pair relaxed.

It was some decades later that they realized their outlets weren’t quite what they had hoped.

First, it was the gladiator matches, followed quickly by public executions and the epic struggle of Man V. Lions. That went hand in hand with cock fights and bullfighting. Ritualized competition took root too — chariot racing, foot racing, all the olympic sports. And sporting teams and team rivalries began to form a kind of nationalism or tribalism that frankly took the muse and the themisa by surprise. In Constantinople, different groups of racing fans at the Hippodrome — like the Venetii and the Prasinoi, or the Blues and the Greens — became political and religious rivals, often leading to riots and violence throughout the city. In one riot, thirty thousand people died. In Rome, on the other hand, the often gory spectaculars were used to distract the populace from corruption and civic need, and often the crowd got to vote on who lived or died for their amusement.

This was not what Clio and Eunomia had had in mind.

So too were the ‘alternatives’ to the theater, or concert, or reading. Burlesque shows, more regarded for their frank sexuality and display of the ‘breast’ than for any artistic merit began to spread. It seemed that there was as much or more of an audience for the lowest common denominator — those things that required the least rarified thought and good amounts of base thinking.

Then, all seemed to resolve. With the advent of the printing press and distribution of materials, all seemed like it would work out. Now, great works of literature, of thought, of understanding and of beauty could be disseminated throughout the land. Literacy soared. The pair breathed easier….

…until the rise of yellow journalism, sensationalist headlines, and the penny dreadful. What looked like a boon, briefly, threatened to make matters worse.

Then came radio, and with it tremendous hope. Now, music, art, and radio drama were in every home. On Saturdays the Opera could be heard in many if not most kitchens. The great music was played. The great performances were brought forth. It was a glorious time.

And then, more stations began to appear on the radio dial. Audiences were broken up by their interests. What did they want to listen to on the radio. Some of it became shocking and sensual, though often with the same driving creativity that had fueled Beethoven in an earlier era. Then it became crappy. And once again, the lowest common denominator became king.

So too it was with television, and for a while Clio and Eunomia were excited. Now, people were gathering in their living rooms to devour art and culture as a culture. Comedy, drama, music, excitement… it was all there. Why, some estimates put a hundred and twenty five million viewers of the final episode of M*A*S*H.

And then two television networks became three, and then four. Cable channels arose. Superstations. Reruns proliferated. Sports. Violence. Titillation. Dozens and then hundreds of channels, each dividing the audience up more and more and more, with more and more tuning into the least challenging of all fare….

Finally, Eunomia had had enough. She sought out the Thesmophoros in her office.

It was a nice office.

The Thesmophoros glanced up at her desk. “Come in, won’t you?”

“We need to do something,” Eunomia said, stomping in.

“You know,” the Thesmophoros said mildly, as if Eunomia hadn’t spoken at all, “I honestly figured you would come here with your muse cohort when you finally got around to it. I’m surprised it’s just you,”

“What? Oh. Cleo couldn’t get away. She’s staggeringly overworked these days.”

The Thesmophoros snorted. “I’m hardly surprised. Six hundred channels on Satellite television. Netflix. Tivo. The internet, with all those blogs and forums — it’s a banner time for a muse, isn’t it?”

“Not that it does any good, but yes.”

The Thesmophoros arched her eyebrows. “Any good? Why, what do you mean? Are the humans not working? Are they not building houses and profits?”

“Of course they are, in record numbers, but–”

“Then I don’t see why you’re so concerned. That’s what you two were worried about, right? Your constituencies couldn’t see any way to do their jobs with each other, and now everyone has plenty of work. Too much work even. So why complain?”

“There’s more to life than work!” Eunomia shouted. “And there’s more to art than just making it!”

The Thesmophoros smiled, slightly. “Go on?”

She hardly needed to say it. Eunomia was on a tear. “Humanity isn’t growing,” she said. “They’re breeding but it’s like they get stupider all the time! The most incredible art is created and only a few dozen people see it! And way more of them spend their off hours watching the worst crap you can imagine! They watch ‘news’ about Paris Hilton or other celebrity scandals! They listen to outrageous slander on the radio that they accept without question! They’re not learning, they’re not expanding themselves or bettering themselves or considering the great questions of art or the world — they’re wallowing!”

The Thesmophoros nodded. “That’s right.”

“Why? Why is this happening? When the kharites were created, we were just putting a buffer in between art and humanity — we weren’t trying to push them into this… this….”

“Indulgence?”

“Yes!”

The Thesmophoros shook her head. “I tried to warn you,” she said. “Humanity, in the material or metaphysical sense, is an ecosystem. You can’t introduce a change in that ecosystem without causing myriad ripples in all directions. You put in a ‘buffer,’ as you called it, between human beings and their appreciation of the artistic, yes?”

“Yes? That was–”

“But you knew that humanity needed diversions from the mundanity of their everyday existence. Absent that escape, they would fall into despair and then destruction. Yes?”

Eunomia looked down. “Yes,” she said, quietly.

“You thought that because of that need, they would seek out the kharites. They would continue to get their needs fulfilled by artistic appreciation, only now it would be measured. Regulated. Controlled. Yes?”

“Yes.” Eunomia was barely whispering, now.

The Thesmophoros snorted. “The arrogance of perspective. Cut off from the affirming and uplifting escape they had been made to enjoy, humanity turned to new escapes. Escapes that the kakodaemons were more than happy to exploit. Because the kakodaemons realized there was something that could fill the void left by the absence of artistic appreciation in their lives, and it was something they could provide in spades.”

“…what?”

“Spectacle.” The Thesmophoros leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “Humanity can be distracted by spectacle. The spectacle of violence, of war, of lust. Show them breasts shaking or swords plunging into bodies or animals attacking and they’ll devour it. This doesn’t make them bad people — far from it. This gives them a visceral release of all the pain and stress of the modern world. They can escape from their fears and their drudgery by diving into the banal and the titillating.”

Eunomia shook her head. “That can’t be right,” she said. “They’re not… they’re not as distracted. They still go to work, they still produce–”

“Of course they do,” the Thesmophoros snapped. “It doesn’t take any energy to consume a reality show or a football match. It’s a spectacle. One they can engage in and believe in and experience, but then they leave it behind. When humanity as a whole was geared up for artistic discourse, they didn’t just consume art, they lived it. A truly moving piece turned into hours of discussion, of debate, of sideline efforts. And all the while humanity edged closer to epiphany — to reaching beyond their mortal shells and becoming something grander than they, you or I could imagine!” The Thesmophoros looked away. “But it was easier to put a governor on those activities than it was for you and your muse friend to reconcile the practical and the aesthetic. And now it’s far easier for humanity to get the release it needs from sports, tits and reality television. Don’t come in here and tell me we need to do something. This is the world you made. A world where only the very lucky will happen upon beauty or glory and be moved — most will pass by without noticing or with annoyance at the intrusion.” She shook her head. “And it’s going to get worse.”

“Worse?” Eunomia looked up. “How could it possibly get worse?”

“You mentioned that the muses were overworked? That’s because just like mankind was wired to appreciate art and to be diverted away from the banality of everyday life? They were also wired to reach for something higher, something beautiful in themselves. When artistic appreciation was innate, this came as naturally as breathing — one muse could inspire one talented artist who could then lift up hundreds or thousands of appreciative humans into a collective epiphany. Now, with more and more human beings having less and less connection to their fellows, they have to seek those epiphanies on their own. So they write. They write stories or journal entries or log posts or songs. They learn instruments or try out for plays or design web sites. They search within themselves that which they no longer feel as connected to others in finding.”

“That’s… that’s good, right?”

“It’s good. Except of course that there are only so many muses. Millions of them, but they’re serving billions of humans, and that means their caseloads are getting harder and harder, even as the audiences for that created art get smaller and smaller and more idiosyncratic.” The Thesmophoros leaned back in her chair. “Now, how have the muses dealt with this kind of overwork in the past?”

Eunomia frowned. “They divide. They begat a new generation, exponentially growing their numbers.”

“That’s right. They started with one who became three, and then nine, and then eighty one, and so on. Yes?”

“Yes. So… this time….”

“Right now there are millions of muses. When they divide next, each muse will begat millions of new muses. Millions, Eunomia. Despite the billions of human beings on the planet, there will suddenly be thousands of muses for every. Single. Human.”

Eunomia’s eyes grew wide. “But….”

“But nothing. Suddenly, each and every human being on the planet will be subject to thousands of conflicting inspirations. He will be overwhelmed with a passionate need to create these images that overwhelms him. He will stop planting fields or harvesting food. He will stop building buildings or maintaining power grids. Industry will stop. Agriculture will stop. Education will stop. Research will stop. All human endeavor will stop. All except art.”

The Thesmophoros shrugged. “And within a few weeks, or months, or a year at the most, humanity will be gone. They will starve to death, or develop disease from lack of exercise or hygiene, or their hearts will explode from lack of sleep, or any number of other causes that boil down to ‘they will stop trying to survive.’ All that will be left is a decaying infrastructure… and an incredible body of artistic work that no one would ever look at. In fact, each work in that final orgy of creation will be composed for an audience of one — the artist himself. No one else will have time to see anyone else’s work. They’ll have work of their own to do. And someday, some alien species will come upon our world, and see what was left behind, and they will say ‘this was the greatest of all races in the universe, for they became so consumed with the quest for the aesthetic and the beautiful and the affirming that they gave up all other endeavor, content to die as a race for their art.’”

Eunomia shivered. “How… how do we stop it? Do we… I know! We create some other spirit to moderate humanity’s need for spectacle–”

The Thesmophoros gave Eunomia a look.

“…no. No, that would end up making things worse, wouldn’t it. All right. We need to get rid of the kharites. Give them back direct artistic appreciation.”

The Thesmophoros snorted. “You can’t. I can’t. No one can. I told you. You cannot uncreate what is created. This is a part of the human condition now. If you killed all the kharites tomorrow, they would reemerge soon enough, and in the meantime humanity would lose all capacity to appreciate art, triggering the death of all things all the faster. Maybe that’s what the kakodaemons have in mind.”

Eunomia frowned. “Then… then we need more kharites. How do they procreate? Is it like muses? Do they grow exponentially?”

“No.” And the Thesmophoros smiled. “No, the kharites are spawned by need. The more that humanity seeks out art of its own accord, is educated in the ways of art, learns to appreciate it, and is drawn to it, the more kharites will be born.”

“Then if we can get humanity to seek out art in high enough numbers… we can stave off disaster. We can get them once again appreciating art as a race, and therefore reduce the strain on the existing muses before they have to divide again!”

“Of course. If it’s possible. But the kakodaemons have done a damnably good job of giving them the kinds of diversion they like. How do you compete with that.”

Eunomia frowned. “Funding. Getting the word out. Advertising. Using the same infrastructure that provides bread and circuses to provide both art and the tools to enjoy it. You can’t tell me it can’t be done. We could reach a point where every human being on the planet had their own dedicated kharite.”

The Thesmophoros nodded. “It would work. Do you think you can convince the other eudaemons? Obviously the kakodaemons will have no reason to go along with this plan.”

“I… don’t know.” Eunomia looked away. “Some of them remember the bad times all too well. Some still don’t like the muses and think what art there is now is just a waste of time. But we don’t have a choice. If we’re going to save the world….”

“We have to enlighten it. I know.”

And they set to work. And as we have not yet hit the artistic armageddon, one can only imagine they’ve done some good. But in the end, it is not the eudaemons or any daemons who will cultivate relationships between humans and kharites. It is humanity itself.

It is you. And it is me. And it is those we speak to.

It’s not hard to develop a relationship with a kharite. There is ample art all around us to enjoy, to explore, and to grow with. The internet is full of it, most of it free for the appreciating. The television is full of it, though you have to turn away from the sheerly escapist and seek out denser fare.

Which doesn’t mean you need to watch nothing but Shakespeare and listen to nothing but Opera. There is plenty of rock out there that will challenge and enlighten. Plenty of jazz that will awaken and inspire. Plenty of rap that will excite and outrage. There is Art to be found in creation, if you step away from the prepackaged, the familiar and the distilled and find it.

Naturally, the more you support art, in your own way and in your own community, the more attention is drawn to it. This can be through lobbying or fundraising or just in helping advertise the local high school’s christmas concert. Art is where we find it, and beauty can be found just about anywhere.

And, through it all, there is one shining beacon of hope. All the way back at the beginning of what has turned out to be a long tale, there was that story of Joshua Bell, sawing away at one of the finest fiddles ever made, drawing little attention.

But the children who heard him play all turned to look, eyes wide, and pulled to stay, even as their parents shepharded them along.

Children hear the words of the kharites more clearly than adults do. It’s a simple relationship. And if you catch them early — teaching them both art and art appreciation then — you can develop a cadre of artists and critics and most of all aficionados of art for life. And as they develop their own artistic style, they drag their parents, and grandparents, extended families and friends of their extended families out. They go to be supportive of Bob’s kids, but when they’re all there in the auditorium, the kharites have a crack at them. They don’t get everyone, but they get some.

And in that, there is hope. For at least another year or two.

Assuming , of course, they’re actually taught art and art appreciation. After all, these things cost money, and there’s lots of other things to spend it on. Right? Both in the schools and out of the schools. You need to tighten your belt these days. A lot of this stuff’s luxuries, not necessities.

I mean, Hell. It’s not the end of the world.

Right?